


The Door is Heavy, But Unlocked.

by megka



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Batfamily, Batfamily Angst, Brothers, Could be triggering, Protective Dick Grayson, Sad, Suicidal Thoughts, Tim Drake Needs Help, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim Drake Whump, Tim Drake-centric, Whump, batfam, please take care of yourself, suicide note, tw: suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:49:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24854110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megka/pseuds/megka
Summary: Tim Drake goes through the formality of writing a note, but just can't seem to find the right words.Loosely canon-compliant, lightly references pre-52 Red Robin.
Comments: 15
Kudos: 406





	The Door is Heavy, But Unlocked.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is heavy with suicidal thoughts, but nothing graphic. Please make sure to consider your own mental well-being before reading. 
> 
> This fic is based off of my own experiences.

At first, the note was addressed: “ _Dear Alfred_ ,” but the very act of penning the phrase made Tim nauseous enough to impulsively send the notebook careening across his room in the manor, the one he’d abandon just days later. The thought of the old butler coming to check on him after not waking up for breakfast, and then lunch, and then afternoon tea halted the teen.   
Alfred was the one who would notice his absence. Not soon enough, but much sooner than anyone else who resides in the stately manor. Tam would catch on eventually, once his overflow workload ended up on her desk. Lucius would follow suit, maybe sending a flagged email, or perhaps even a strongly worded text to his work phone. Dick and Damian. . .

  
Alfred would be the first.

  
Alfred would be the one who opened the door, heavy but unlocked. He would first notice the open window and the crinkled sheets, silently chastising the boy for neglecting to make his bed. He would be the first to wonder if it was an invasion of privacy, barging into his room, and elect to do it anyway. He would be the first to call out his name. He would be the first to notice. He would be the first to care.

_Dear Alfred,_

No. Not that night. Not that note.

The next time Tim Drake set pen to that lined notebook paper was just hours before he was set to confront Ra’s. He planned, he planned, he planned, and this was it. Always steps ahead of the League, of the Bats, of anyone else was Tim, enough steps to win hidden wars by landslides, plus one more just for himself. One more step that originated in the clockwork of his genius mind like all the rest, one that was informed by tangible evidence, and one that relied on all the moving parts to be manipulated just at the right time. 

  
Dear Bruce, he started this time, scarily able to stomach the thought much better than before. He stared at the horizontal blue lines intersecting at crossroads with the red right-hand margin and couldn’t think of anything worth writing about. The glow of his digital clock blinked momentarily as the numbers shifted, reminding him of the dwindling time as well as just how dark his apartment had gotten when the sun set over Gotham’s west side. 

  
Dear Bruce, he traced over the letters with a ballpoint pen, the pressure of the tip almost breaking through the thin parchment, I hope he thought before slamming the book closed, swiftly crossing the sunless space in order to check over his equipment just one more time, just one more time, and another after that.

  
He could not find it anywhere inside himself to hope. Because his body, his mind, and, depending on the vacancy of the afterlife, his soul, all looked to be ending that night. He did not hope, dread, anticipate, look to, expect. He simply was and was soon not to be.

  
So he writes just a fragment.  
  
_Dear Bruce,_  
_I am not_

A quid pro quo. A life for a life. An uneven trade, but a trade nonetheless. Tim knew Bruce could fill in the blank, once he triumphantly returned to a nest with one less bird, but a nest nonetheless. 

_I am not_ Robin?  
_I am not_ your son?  
_I am not_ worth saving?

Whatever Bruce would decide fits best, he supposed, would be the right answer.

_Dear _______,_

  
He had crossed out Bruce’s name in a violent scribble months after Dick had broken his fall, swinging to catch his broken form in a downpour of broken glass. He sits contemplating what would fill the void once occupied by his estranged adoptive father’s title. Bruce’s name was much easier to process back then, when he was the only one who knew. 

_Dear Kon?_

Fuck.

He decides he is alright with the mess of black pen as the address. 

  
_I am not._ Period. He simply isn’t.

He skips a few lines. He supposes space is needed for others to write in, to pen their theories and analyses on just how Tim had functioned and why exactly he chose to do what he did. At this point, and quite uncharacteristically so, Tim has no plan other than to just cease to be. How to get from point A to point B is intentionally left as a spur-of-the-moment decision, just to see how it felt to be spontaneous, to be in control by succumbing to whatever whim possesses him.

_And I won’t be anything more or less. Fate was never interested in me._

He cringes at his own words just as pen meets paper, but does not have the energy to scribble them out. Whatever he writes then will just have to be enough, to be enough, and a little more than that. At this point Tim allows himself to relish in the childhood he never lived, one of innocent crushes, carefree summers, and angsty poetry.

After a period that may have been hours or may have been the unnoticed freeze of time, Tim decides the note is sorely bare. Eighteen words to encompass his entire eighteen years? Perhaps this is apt. Perhaps these sorry eighteen words are another reason why his eighteen years would never be plus one, two, three, and many more. 

He is not supposed to cry, he reminds himself as he begins to do just that. And then he thinks of Damian. He wants to scold himself for filling up his last moments with torturous thoughts, but somehow the thought of the youngest Wayne is lighter than the image of himself. Tim sits and marvels at Damian’s innocence, despite his upbringing. 

Tim thinks about the child and suddenly the act of thinking seems to be headlights in his eyes and he is crying not for himself, but for the younger brother he’ll never get to truly know. 

So right about that darkened space next to Dear, Tim shakily pens Damian.

_Dear Damian_ (my brother),

_I am not_ (mad at you) (the brother you deserve).

_And I won’t be anything more or less_ (I won’t get the chance) (nobody gave me the chance) (I took away my chance). _Fate was never interested in me_ (I’m just) (a replacement) (I’m just) (a means to an end) (a placeholder) (I’m just) (scared).  


  
“I’m so scared. Please, I’m so scared.”

“Tim, where are you?”

“I’m home. Bruce’s home.”

“Are you safe?”

“No one else is here.”

“Are you safe?”

“I don’t know!”

“Tim. Please I’m on my way. I just need to know that you’re safe.”

“I am not.”

Dick lets out a cry that sounds too animalistic, too raw. He can almost hear his hands shaking over the phone.

“Tim, Tim! Are you still with me, bud?”

A pause that will bring Dick Grayson nightmares for months to come.

“I’m here. I just. . . I don’t think I want to be.”

  
“I’m coming, I’m coming. We’ll get it all figured out when I get there, alright Tim?”

“I don’t think you have the answers.” Dick thinks it’s the voice of a stranger on the other side of the call, not his little brother.

“Well, we don’t need them all right now. We don’t.” Dick assures, “Just one at a time, huh? One at a time.”

No reply.

“Tim?” He questions as he continues to speed down the backroads leading to the manor. He’d crossed Gotham in 20 minutes flat as soon as he picked up and heard the broken voice of his younger brother, the same one who had lost an unholy amount of weight, and the same one Alfred said he was worried about when they spoke last. He speeds up even faster as Tim continues to not speak.

“Tim, is Alfred downstairs?”

“. . .Downstairs downstairs.” Tim replies, using code for the Batcave out of habit, forever weary of phone tappers.

“Can you go get him?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll be there soon, okay?” At least five more minutes, Dick thinks in a panic, “I’ll be there soon.”

“And then what?”

“And then we’ll talk.”

“I don’t think we need to. I wrote a note.” Dick is officially over 70 in a 35 zone, nearing the winding curves of the manor’s expansive driveways. “I addressed it to Damian. Do you think that’s okay?”

_Nothing about this is okay!_ Dick wants to scream, but he can see the stately manor getting closer and closer and can’t fuck up again now. 

“Tim,” Dick starts again as he shoots around a curve, “Tim, please.” He cannot think of anything else to say.

The teen can hear the grinding of tires against the driveway from his room as Dick skids to a stop. Fat tears stream down his face. 

“I’m going to say goodbye now, okay?” Tim asks, his voice wavering and he listens to Dick’s gasps as he sprints to the front door. 

“Tim, I’m almost-”

“I called because I didn’t think of writing to you. I didn’t. . . I think it’s because- because I knew.”

“Because you knew what, Tim?” Dick squeezes out as he rips the front door open, crossing the foyer in record time. 

Tim lets out a breathy cry. 

“Because I knew you’d pick up.”

  



End file.
